


Catharsis

by Louuve (ManuLouuve)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Muteness, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Trauma, anger issues, for reader at least, gender neutral reader, not beta read we die like men, touch repulsed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManuLouuve/pseuds/Louuve
Summary: The anger is never entirely gone. It’s always there, at the back of your mind, trying its damndest to make you go crazy.You just know that it's here, always, and it extinguished your voice along the way.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith/Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader, Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 66





	1. A Silent Owl

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Praise of Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24603184) by [CaptainNautical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainNautical/pseuds/CaptainNautical). 



> I've debated posting this fic for a long time because this is mostly self-indulgent and because I'm not exactly dutifully working on it. It's a side project from To Die and To Live, and No, I don't forget about Cass' and Co, I never will, because I have Many Project for them all and I can't not write it.
> 
> But anyway, yeah, this fic is strange to me, because I feel like I'm dealing with things within it, and posting feels weird, but, you never know, it might help someone out there who feels the same. I'm Not like the reader in this, I don't have selective muteness, but sometimes talking for me is hard and writing is way easier than talking; I am the tactical kind, but it makes me self-concious in a strange way I can't really explain; I Do deal with this strange anger that sometimes plague my head for no reason, but not as strongly as the Reader and not with PUNCHS.
> 
> But I do enjoy writing this story and changing the plotline for our best Cowboy to be Happy because Arthur deserves the best things in the world, and if you enjoy it along with me? Then, that's great!
> 
> Also, English isn't my first language, so the writing might be strange from time to time, but I swear I'm trying my Best.
> 
> And Yes, this was definitly inspired by In Praise of SIlence, by CaptainNautical, because this fic is absolutely Great and Soft and I read it from time to time because I just Love It.

You’ve perched yourself on the cliff in Horseshoe Overlook, getting away from everyone. You mostly want to be left alone, because your anger is back, and throwing rocks down into the Dakota River is the only thing that keeps you from snapping at Miss Grimshaw and Uncle.

The anger is never entirely gone. It’s always there, at the back of your mind, trying its damndest to make you go crazy.

You don’t know when it appeared. If it was after your Pop’s death, killed by a bunch of bounty hunters, or after your Momma left you, unable to take care of you both and leaving you at the hands of a couple who actually didn’t want you. You don’t remember much of your time with them, and it’s probably for the best.

Now, you just know that the anger is here, always, and it extinguished your voice along the way.

“Hey there, Night Owl,” comes Arthur’s voice behind you.

You don’t turn to him, throwing another rock in the river. You feel him standing beside you, smell the smoke coming out of his cigarette. He doesn’t say anything else, and you're glad for it.

Arthur was the one to find that nickname, a few weeks after you joined them. A thing about your eyes, apparently, and how sharp you look. You know it also comes from the numerous times he had found you awake in the middle of the night, staring at the flames of the fire, unable to sleep.

He stays there a few moments with you, probably watching every rock fall into the water, standing beside you. But at some point, he flicks his cigarette away and bends on one knee, getting to your level. You glance at him, seeing his blue eyes on you, but you turn back to the river. You try to ease your frown, but know it's no use.

“So,” Arthur starts, scratching his beard. “I’ll be goin’ into Valentine. See if there’s anythin’ interestin’. Wanna come, Night?”

There’s still a lot of rock around you, but you know it’s no use. The anger won’t subside just with that.

If you go into the saloon, maybe you could bully someone into a brawl. That would ease your nerves.

You turn to Arthur, finally meeting his eyes, and nod. He only let out a short chuckle before standing up. You follow him at the other side of the camp, seeing him mount his new horse, a beautiful Nokota mare who still seems not used to him. “Easy there, Treasure,” he crooned as you mount your own horse.

The black stallion your mounting doesn’t have a name, per say. At least, you never told anyone, but you secretly called him Hades. He’s not a calm mount, and usually mirrors your anger, and you love him for that.

“A’right, off we go,” Arthur says, and you follow him to Valentine.

You get your brawl into the saloon, along with Javier, Charles and Bill, and you’re smiling during all the fights, blood on your knuckles and bruises on your face. You don’t end up as bad as Arthur, covered in mud and almost killing someone, but when the adrenaline finally disappears, the anger finally lets go of your mind, going back to the far pit of your thoughts. You’ll be free of it for a few days.

“Quite the fight,” Bill laughs beside you as you're going back to camp.

The other three had left them to go looking for Sean, who was apparently alive. Sean was an idiot, but you missed his constant talking. He somehow knew what haunted your mind and seemed to tease it just enough for you to let it go, usually laughing along the way.

You hum at Bill, answering with your hands.  _ Needed it _ .

He huffed a laugh. “You looked like it.”

For however gruff and hard Bill was, he had been the only one to know how to read your hands. His mother was deaf, apparently. You’d picked the language along the way at some point, and even if it usually was useless, sometimes, someone would understand you.

“Hey, Owl,” Bill calls, tearing you out of your thoughts. You turn to him, frowning at him. “How long’ve you been with us now?”

You held up one finger to him.  _ One year _ . You’d been the newest gang member before Charles. You were the friendliest to him, at first, despite your curse, because you knew he was surrounded by strangers. He wasn’t as silent as you, but his quietness met along with yours. He, too, had difficulties to sleep some night, and they would stay by the campfire, just enjoying each other's presence.

Arthur had come along the way, at some point. You figured it out after that time they went hunting in Colter. Arthur had started to be nice to Charles, nicer than with everyone, and you know something is building between them. It’s funny to watch, actually.

“There you are!” suddenly comes Miss Grimshaw’s voice as you and Bill finally come back to camp. She’s stomping toward you, an angry frown on her face. You cringe at the sight and Bill laughs, leaving you alone to deal with Susan. You barely have the time to hitch your horse before she’s on you. “Quite the commotion you caused in Valentine,” she scolds you. You try to point at Bill, who’s really started it, but she only grabbed your bloodied hand.

You snatch it away immediately, ready to snarl at her if necessary, but she only gives you an unimpressed look. “One day, you’ll hurt your hands so badly it won’t ever heal back,” she asserts, pointing a finger at you.

You huff at that and move around her to go toward your bedroll. You know she’s right, but you can’t help it. Sometimes, you just have to punch something, being someone’s face or a tree trunk.

“Hey there.” You’re caught off guard, and you turned around, shooting a deadly glare at anyone who startled you. You flatter a bit when you realize it’s Mary-Beth, who immediately stops at your look. 

“Sorry--” she tries to apologize, but you shake your hands in front of you, shushing her. You scratch the back of your head, sheepish, and bend a bit forward, apologizing yourself. When you look up, Mary-Beth is smiling, and you feel yourself smiling too.

“Heard you had a bit of a day,” she explains, walking forward to you. She offers you a cup of coffee, that you take reverently. “Figured that could help.” You tip your head forward, and her smile widened. 

She looks up at your hands then, still covered in blood - yours mixed with someones. “Do you need help with those?”

You feel the answer on the tip of your tongue, but you gulped it back. You only shake your head, and Mary-Beth accepts with a nod. You never let anyone take care of your wounds, except when they're too serious. Touch makes the anger come back faster.

You lift the cup of coffee in front of you, smiling at her again, thankful, and Mary-Beth tilt her head forward, responding as silently, before trotting back to what she was doing. You watch her go, before going near the cliff, watching the night sky, drinking your coffee. It’s bitter, as always, because no one can put their hands on good coffee, but you’re used to it by now.

As you watch the sky, you see a faint shooting star passing through. You blink, surprise, and settle on a wish.

You wish to feel better.

***

Sean is back and everyone started a party.

You’re glad the Irish gremlin is back but you could really do with less noise.

Charles seems to agree with you, because he settled with you on the side campfire, out of everyone’s sight. You’re sitting on the ground, back on a cart, feet by the fire, carving something into soft wood with your knife. Charles is beside you, smoking from his pipe, watching around with a repeater by his side. No one’s guarding tonight. Someone got to do the job.

“Who’s there?” he suddenly calls, startling you. You didn’t hear the hoofbeats until he spoke.

“Arthur,” the man answers, coming in on Treasure. The mare seems tired, and he quickly dismounts her, taking her saddle away and letting her rest among the other horses.

You click your tongue at him in greetings, and Charles lifts his pipe. “You come back late,” he says, and Arthur sighs at that.

“Yeah,” he simply answers, and seems to finally register the noise of the party. Sean is screaming something, probably on top of the table. “What’s happening?”

“A party for Sean,” Charles replies, standing up beside you, getting closer to the fire.

“‘Course,” Arthur laughs, and there’s something bitter in it. You think back to Jenny and Davey, both dead, and Mac still missing, and you can figure out why. “And what you two doin’ out there then?” he asks, lighting a cigarette before going to stand next to Charles.

He looks at you first and you send him a long suffering look, your hand making a  _ blah blah _ move. He chuckles shortly again, eyes glancing at the noise on your back, before turning to Charles.

“Gotta keep the owl company,” he shrugged. You kick his ankle lightly, knowing full well that you both stumbled here at the same time. “And someone gotta keep watch,” he adds, not sparing you a glance.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, tucking his thumb on his belt, his eyes going from Charles’ face to his pipe. “With this in hand?”

“Sure,” he answers, and there’s a teasing note in his voice. You roll your eyes, readying yourself for their usual dance. You see him take a long drag of the thing, before slowly letting the smoke out, eyes locked with Arthur’s. “I can multitask.”

“Can you know?” Arthur replies in a charming tone.

“‘Course. Can’t you?”

“Eh, I don’t know. Never tried my hand at it.”

You almost growl, but decide against it, not wanting to ruin their moment. As funny as it is, it also gets tiring. You hope that if they’re not dating yet, they settle on it soon.

Sean suddenly comes crashing near your little group, falling on the cart, and how he manages to get upright immediately after utterly escapes you. The teenager is as drunk as Uncle on his good days.

“Oh, here y’are!” he calls, his Irish accent even harder to understand. “Why y’all ain’t celebratin’ wi’ us!”

Sean walks to them and is lucky Arthur catches him before he falls face first into the fire. “Easy there, cowboy,” Arthur chuckled, grabbing his shoulders to keep him steady.

“Arthur!” Sean laughs, and passes a hand on Arthur’s back, face very close to his. You snort at the sight. “Ya Englishman, how are ya!”

“Better than you, apparently.”

“That ain’t true! Never been better!” Sean laughs again and it’s contagious because you feel your shoulders shaking, the piece of wood abandoned on your lap. Sean must catch the movement because he turns to you then, eyes clouded by the alcohol and a smile going from ear to ear. “Owl!” he calls, and you tip your head at him, still smiling. “Ar, missed ya, buddy!”

He accidentally hits Arthur in the rib while moving, before falling beside you, head hitting the cart. He doesn’t even grunt. He’s close enough that his shoulder touches yours and you distance yourself from him, just enough so you can feel the heat radiating from him in the cold night.

“Tell meh, Owl, how’ve ya been?” Sean slurs, his eyes catching yours. You lift up your hand, knuckles still red from your fight in Valentine. “‘Course you punch someone! Withou’ me aroun’, ya gotta find someone else to punch.” You raise an eyebrow at him, because you never punched Sean before. Not in the face at least. Shoulders, arms, sure. And never hard enough to leave bruises.

Sean moves his head back then, eyes darting all around your face, and he frowns. You frown back, unsure of what he saw, when he suddenly lifts a hand to your cheek.

You catch his wrist before he can touch you, eyes hard on him.

He seems to realize what he really was about to do. “Eh, sorry,” he says, eyes a bit more focused. You feel his arm fall and you let go of him. “Ya just got-- quite the black eye.”

He worries, you realize. Of course he does. He might act as if he doesn’t care for anyone, but Sean is still a teenager after all, and your part of his family now. You smile softly, waving your hand around to tell him it’s okay and that you’re fine. Then you point at him and then at your heart under your chest, hitting it once.

“Aah, ya missed meh too?” You snort before nodding and shaking your head as if it was definitely a mistake. “Nah, I know ya love me, ya do. Jus’ like Arthur there!” He goes to point at the man beside the fire, but you realize that he and Charles have disappeared. “Where are they?!”

You wonder if they have finally decided to resolve the tension between them.

But Sean put them aside and kept talking. He tells you about the bounty hunters that took him, how he made it a hard time on them. He doesn’t mention what they did to him, but it’s implied. Bounty hunters are rarely nice, and often violent for no reason except their own satisfaction.

“It’s good to be home,” he says in the end in a content sigh.

And his head falls on your shoulder, sleep claiming him.

You tense under the contact, suddenly way more awake. But the usual burning feeling when someone touches you doesn’t come, you only feel Sean’s warmth spreading through your shirt.

You don’t dare move, afraid of waking Sean up. You still groan, feeling uneasy under his weight.

“Ah, Sean trapped you.” You look up to the tree line at Arthur’s voices. He’s looking at you with a soft smile, as if the scene is somehow cute. “Ya need help there?”

You sigh at him, hoping to sound annoyed, before nodding. You notice Charles coming out of the woods as Arthur comes to you, grabbing Sean’s arms and lifting him on his shoulder. He’s not exactly smiling, but his face seems softer than usual.

“Gotta bring the kid to bed,” Arthur says, already leaving them. “G’night, ya two.”

“Good night Arthur,” Charles answers, as you grunt at the same time. You watch Arthur leave as Charles comes sitting beside you, taking Sean’s place. You stare at him, trying to know if anything happened, and he catches you doing so. “What?”

You smirk at him and smack your hands together in an obvious gesture.

Charles’ eyes widens slightly, and you wonder if he’s blushing, since you can’t really tell. “Mind your own business,” he growls, and your shoulders shake with a laugh. He groans a bit more and deliberately looks into the fire, avoiding your eyes. "You're awfully nosy for someone so silent." You just mock him a bit more.


	2. The Voice of a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for Puking

You've been out for a couple of days, easing your nerves on just roaming around, doing petty crimes. You've robbed people along the way and killed one man. He was carrying a woman crying for help on the back of his horse. You shot him in the head with your shotgun and freed her.

You're just getting back, going to the hitching post on Hades' back when you spot Arthur stomping toward you and Treasure next to you.

He seems in an awful mood. You don't dismount Hades just yet, not wanting to be in his way, but he sees you anyway.

"Night," he growls, and his tone leaves no place for argument. "You're comin' with me."

_ Where?  _ you want to ask, but you don't know how to gesture it. So you follow him out of camp, trotting beside him at a steady pace.

As you go to Valentine, you slowly realize that Arthur brought you in for your silence. You know that something is wrong, and he knows you won't ask. You don't really expect him to talk to you, anyway.

What you were expecting was to run some errand into the livestock town, but you follow him past it. And the more you go, the more you're getting away from it, until you finally leave the road and stumble onto a small ranch.

"Mister Downes!" Arthur calls, startling you. He sounds angry, angrier than usual, and you suddenly understand what's happening. 

Arthur had been sent to collect Strauss debts, recently. And this is just another lost soul who had the misfortune to fall into the austrian trap.

He dismounts near a little garden, where a man is working in the dirt. You follow his lead, eyes lingering on the almost dead plants and on the man himself, his weak and shivering frame.

You wonder if Arthur brought you to punch the man alongside him or stop him from doing something because of his anger.

"Mister Downes," he calls again, and the man looks up, looking very pale under the sunlight. "You owe us money."

You stay outside of the pen while Arthur pushes the gate open, going near Mister Downes. The look in the man's eyes make you feel uneasy. He looks terrified.

"We-we don't--" he starts.

"I don't give a shit," Arthur interrupts him. You see the man back away, horror painted on his face, away from Arthur anger and all of this is very wrong.

You lose track of what Arthur says, your eyes focus on Downes’ face, the growing terror, his paleness, shaking in front of Arthur. And when Arthur grabs his collar, about to punch him, you feel the need to stop him, because this man is sick, terribly sick, it's written in his bloodshot eyes, and you're too far away to grab Arthur's arm and stop him, to just grunt at him, to do  _ something _ \--

" _ Arthur _ ," you call, urgency in your hoarse voice.

You don't say it very loud, the sound barely above a whisper, but Arthur immediately freezes, fist above Downes' face.

You see him turn to you, focusing entirely on your face, and he has the most baffled look you've ever seen on him. "Did you just  _ talk?" _ he asks, and you wish you could answer, but you're as surprised as him.

People suddenly stumble out of the house, a woman and young man, calling for Mister Downes. Hearing them, Arthur let go of the man, who stumbles to the ground, coughing heavily in his elbow. Arthur focuses on them instead of you and walks to them, angry frown on his face.

You don't hear him talk to Downes' wife and son, a ringing echoing in your ears. You lift a hand to your mouth, unable to believe what you just did. When was the last time you spoke? You can’t remember, it seems like a lifetime ago. You don't even remember the last word you said.

"Night," suddenly comes Arthur's voice, and your eyes shoot up to his. He looks worried, and you see his hands moving, as if he wants to hold you, so you just back away, mounting back on Hades, spurring the stallion before Arthur can reach his mare.

You don't go very far until he comes back to your side. You don't look at him, not wanting to see the questions in his gaze. You don't want to answer any of them. Not like you could anyway.

"Night," he calls again, and his voice is soft, softer than usual. "I won't pry. But you look  _ sick _ ."

You hadn't realized it until he said it, but the nausea comes to you like a wave crashing over a rock. And the rock is too thin to not get destroyed by its strength.

Hades stops on his own under you, sensing what's plaguing you, and you almost don't have the time to dismount before you start vomiting on the ground, one hand on the stallion's shoulder to steady yourself. You feel Arthur's presence beside you, the hand he places next to yours on your horse, not touching you but a silent support anyway.

In the end, you feel completely drenched. You hadn't eaten much, those past few days, and the bile crawling in your throat was a painful reminder of your empty stomach. You groan loudly, moving away from Hades and Arthur and letting yourself fall on the grass. The sky is very blue above you.

You're so very exhausted.

You hear Arthur taking care of the horses, leading them out of the road. He’s whispering soft words to them, and the sound of brush on fur reaches you. You wonder if you puked on Hades’ legs.

After some time, you see Arthur’s towering figure above you, the sun on his back shadowing his expression. He bends next to you, and offers you a canteen. “Here,” he says quietly.

You straighten on the ground, sitting more properly, legs crossed under you as you take it. You wash your mouth a bit before drinking profusely, Arthur sitting beside you, leaving enough space between you. With how much you drink, you were probably a bit dehydrated too.

Arthur takes a breath next to you, and you turn to him, expecting his eyes on you, but he’s only looking in the distance. You can’t exactly read his face, but he feels conflicted. Maybe guilty.

You frown, hitting his thigh to get his attention, and he startles, making you jump in the process. He turns to you and you shake your head at him, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

He just frowned back. “Don’t you start worryin’ on me, y’are the one lookin’ like a ghost.” You roll your eyes, brushing it away with one hand. He only clicks his tongue, annoyed at you, before getting an apple out of his satchel, extending it to you. “Eat somethin’ before passin’ out.”

You glare at him for a second before snatching the apple away, without eating it yet. You’re not entirely sure you can stomach it. Arthur still seems satisfied that you’re planning to eat it, at least. But he’s still frowning at you and you really don’t like the light in his eyes. He looks haunted.

He sighs deeply, then. “Ya really can’t talk, right?”

You study him for a second, trying to know if he’s mocking you, before nodding.

Some would have said that you  _ don’t _ talk. And it’s true, at its core; you don’t talk. You used to, when you were young, such a long time ago, but you remember people telling you to  _ shut up for fuck sake stop talking no one wants to hear you and no one  _ can _ hear you.  _ So, it’s right that you don’t talk, but you mostly can’t. The fear is too deep inside your heart for it.

Arthur nods back as he lit a cigarette. He takes a small drag of it before extending it to you. You don’t smoke much, but you still take it.

The feeling of the smoke in your throat and your lungs ease something in you as you hand it back to Arthur.

You both stay silent for a moment, listening to the chirping birds and the foxes yapping in the background, before Arthur speaks again.

“Thank you,” he says, and you blink at him, not sure of what he’s thanking you for. “For stoppin’ me. That man was a’ready in bad shape. Probably would’ve killed him.”

_ Don't mention it _ , you say with your hand, and you know he can't read them, but he probably got the idea.

You brush the apple on your sleeve, cleaning it a bit, before biting in the fruit. You usually don't like apples, but this one still tastes good enough. When you look at Arthur again, the worry lines at the corner of his eyes have eased away, even if he's not smiling.

You wish he’d worry less and smile more. If it weren’t for Dutch and everyone else asking him things all the time, he probably would.

You feel your heart fluster at the thought of Arthur smiling, and you really don’t get why. You mentally shake yourself, finishing the apple, before getting up and marching to the horse.

You really need to get back to camp and have a really long nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck Tuberculosis!


	3. Wise Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's... exist. It's very short. But I still like it.

You’re doing chores around camp, mostly because they need to be done, but also to keep yourself busy and avoid people.

The anger is back and you know that a new fight in Valentine wouldn’t be welcomed. So you just have to tire yourself enough to put it back in its place.

You’ve brought hay to the horses, chopped vegetables for the stew, cleaned saddles and groomed Hades. Now, you’re chopping wood for the fire, and it’s weirdly satisfying to swing the axe around and let it fall heavily on the logs.

“You’re going to cut all the forest if you keep at it.”

You look up to Hosea, who’s walking toward you with two cups of coffee. You then look down at the pile next to you and-- maybe he’s right. Hosea chuckles when he reaches you as you let the axe fall to the floor, sighing deeply. You still take the cup he offers you, nodding your thanks.

“Is this one of those days?” the man asks you with a quiet smile. You nod again, drinking a bit of the beverage - it’s decent, for once. It’s scorching hot and it burns your tongue, but you don’t really care. Sometimes, you feel like pain is the only way to push the anger away.

Hosea hums, a smile hidden behind his cup, and you wonder what he sees in you with his studying eyes. What he saw when he brought you in. 

“You remind me of Arthur, when you’re like that,” he says, and you can’t help the surprise on your face. “Oh, sure, you’re definitely not the same,” he huffs with a laugh. “And he doesn’t express it in the same way. But why do you think he’s gone most of the time?” 

You never really thought about it, really. You figured it was for the gang, mostly. 

“Arthur is an angry boy,” Hosea chuckles again, and he really sounds like a father in this moment. “And he would be even angrier if we didn’t let him run around. And there’s his journal, too.” You’ve seen the thing, and you always wondered what was inside. The drawing always interested you, but you know that this is his secret garden and that no one is allowed in it.

“Did you ever think of putting what’s plaguing you into words?” Hosea asks carefully, soft hazel eyes lingering on you.

You shrug; you did, a long time ago. For that and maybe to be able to really say things. But it’s not like you can write anyway. You try to gesture it at Hosea as best you can, and he seems to understand after a few tries. 

“You can’t write?” He seems bewildered. You nod; you can’t read, neither. “Well, my dear, maybe I can teach you!” You snort, shaking your head; you’re too old to learn. “Or Lenny could, when he comes back with Micah; he’s been on Sean’s back about it for quite a time.” You give him a look probably expressive enough, and Hosea only chuckles back. “Give it a thought, will you? It could help you in many ways.”

You study him for a moment, and nod. You’ll think about it.

Hosea winks at you, then turns around, going to Dutch’s tent.


	4. The Hunters' Tale

You’re barely awake, standing near the pot next to Pearson wagon, a cup of terrible coffee in hand when you spot Charles around Taima. You don’t think much of it at first; Charles is the designated hunter of the gang, along with Arthur, and even if he’s not going hunting, with how much work he does around camp, he deserves a bit of time away. But when you see him tucking a hunting rifle on his saddle, you frown.

Charles never uses a rifle.

You throw your coffee on the ground - you don’t know who made it, but it’s more disgusting than usual - and walk toward him, curious. He hears you coming, obviously, because you’re not exactly the stealthy type.

“Hey, Night,” Charles greets you and you nod your answer. You point at the rifle on Taima’s back, one eyebrow raised in an obvious question. “I’m going for a hunt,” he explains, but you still don’t understand why it’s a  _ rifle _ and not his bow.

“Hunting what, money?” You jump at the sound of Arthur’s voice. You turn to him with an annoyed glare, but he only snorts at you, the bastard.

“No, you absolute imbecile.” Charles answers with an endearing tone and you can hear the smile in his voice. Arthur seems to hear it too, because his whole face melts into something very soft. You turn away from him, feeling like you shouldn’t have witnessed that.

Charles talks about the bison, and with how his eyes shine, you can feel how important they are to him. You figure it’s your clue to leave when he asks if Arthur wants to join him and the man agrees eagerly.

“What about you, Night?” Charles asks you then and you turn around to see him smile.

You glance at Arthur, who’s just going to mount Treasure, then squint at Charles, making a confused gesture with your hands. Firstly, you’re not a hunter, you don’t know how to be silent and you’re better with a shotgun than a long distance rifle. Secondly, this clearly looks like a date and you can’t figure out why Charles would want you around.

And Charles, this insufferable idiot, only arch an eyebrow at you, waiting for your answer.

You huff and shake your head; you really don’t want to intrude their moment. Charles’ smile falls a bit, surprising you, but he seems to understand, mounting Taima and following Arthur out of camp before leading the way.

You watch them leave, eyes lingering on their form before they disappear behind the trees. Arthur’s soft expression and Charles’ tender smile flash before your eyes and you turn around, pushing the sight out of your mind.

***

When you see Charles comes back, alone and with an angered look on his face, you immediately worry. But when he doesn’t rush to Dutch’s tent and instead takes the time to get Taima’s saddle off of her back and starts to diligently groom her, you know that Arthur’s fine and not dead somewhere in the Heartlands. But the tense line of his shoulders still tells you that  _ something _ happened.

You don’t immediately get to him, though. You know how Charles’ anger works, even for how rare the sight is; he usually needs to calm down with simple tasks, something to take his mind out of it all and focus on the present. So you leave him be, glancing at him from time to time as the day goes on and he doesn’t leave Taima’s side. Sean and Uncle try to talk to him, at some point, each as annoying as ever, and Charles doesn’t even acknowledge their presence with a look.

As the sun is getting low on the horizon, you decide to go to the little campfire near the side of the camp, the place empty most of the time, and today as well. You sit on the ground, getting your shotgun and a piece of fabric out and start cleaning it. You haven’t done it in a while and, really, it needs it.

You don’t really focus on the task, eyes mostly on Charles. He must feel your gaze on him because he turns around, spotting you near the fire. You greet him with your fingers, silently telling him that you’re here if he needs you, and look back at your gun. There’s nothing more you can do.

Still, you didn’t expect him to come to you right away. You look up at him as he’s coming to you, sitting next to you, legs and arms crossed. He’s looking into the flames and there’s still a frown on his forehead.

Your eyes linger on him for a moment before you decide to tuck the gun back in its holster. You sit a bit more comfortably, back leaning on a crate behind you and extending your legs to the fire. You know Charles won’t talk; not yet at least. He just wants someone silent to be with, and you’re happy to provide such.

The sun silently sets as you hear Javier starts tuning his guitar before he plays something. People seem to join him and you see Tilly and Karen glance at you and Charles from the pot, giggling, but you don’t think much of it.

“I’ve made Arthur kill someone.”

You turn to Charles, a bit surprised that he actually explains what happened. His eyes are still on the fire and his frown has increased.

“There was poachers. Killing bison for  _ nothing _ ,” he explains, and the anger radiating off of him would have scared you if it had been directed at you. But you just feel angry with him. “I shot one and Arthur beated the other. I asked him to kill him and…” He sighs heavily, rubbing a hand on his face, making him look more tired than anything. “And he did.”

It doesn’t surprise you; you probably would have killed the poacher too if Charles asked you. You’re all killer anyway, what’s one more? And if Arthur really didn’t want to kill that man, he probably wouldn't have. But you know that’s not exactly the problem here.

Charles huffs, shaking his head in annoyance. “I keep telling him he’s a good man and here’s what I do.”

You really want to comfort him, but you don’t know how. Charles’s emotions are usually very guarded, only allowing a few people to witness a part of it. You feel like he’s only showing you the tip of the iceberg, that there’s a real turmoil going down in his mind, and it really pains you to know it.

Actually, you know how you could at least try to comfort him, but it scares you.

But Charles is also your best friend.

You take a deep breath, making up your mind, and lift a hand to his knee next to you. Squeeze lightly.

Charles’ eyes leave the fire to rest on your hand, and you can feel his focus shifting entirely. When he fully turns to you, eyes wide in surprise and taken aback by what you just did, you focus on his brown iris, one with a very subtle patch of green in it, enlightened by the fire, and you smile.

_ It’s okay _ , you want to tell him.  _ You’re alright. Everything’s going to be fine. _

You pat his knee twice before taking your hand away, and you see Charles following the movement before meeting your eyes again. You know it doesn’t solve anything, that this is mostly between Arthur and him, but he seems grateful nonetheless. Probably see it for the gift it is, for how clever Charles is.

You hear Bill’s voice calling out on someone then, a gruff voice answering the usual question in the wood, and you turn around just in time to see Arthur coming into camp, several animals pelt on Treasure’s back, along with a bison’s. But when he dismounts his mare, you see him look around, clearly searching for something. Or someone.

Charles probably sees it too, because he huffs, the sound less heavy than before. He stands up at the same time Arthur spots him, and they walk toward each other. You can’t help the soft smile spreading on your lips when you see them meeting halfway and taking each other’s hand, the fluttering feeling warming your guts when you see them whisper to the other, the way they get closer. You can see the worry lines easing away from Arthur’s face and Charles’ shoulder sinking with a sigh when they lean on each other’s forehead.

It makes you happy, just seeing them together, and you’re not entirely sure to know why. You’re not sure you  _ want _ to know why.

So you stand up from the campfire, stretching your limbs a bit before going to your bedroll, trying to push the feeling aside as best you can.


	5. When Fury Kills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got out of hand, and I was probably feeling very angry when I wrote it and I needed to let it out somewhere, I guess

“Hey there,  _ Birdie _ .”

If you don’t leave the camp immediately, you’ll kill Micah.

The man had been back for a few days now, bringing some cash with him, along with a few blood stains and wounds. Nothing too serious, but you honestly didn’t care for him; you always hated him anyway.

You had been more worried about Arthur, who had also been wounded, and the worrieness had been stronger than with everyone else. Seeing him with blood on his shirt and bullet holes in his hat had sent a dreadful shiver down your spine, even though he wasn’t more injured than Micah. You had to shake yourself from this strange feeling, before going back to your chores.

But right now, Arthur isn’t at camp; he had disappeared shortly after bringing Micah back, and you weren’t expecting to see him before a few days.

You settle on leaving camp by yourself, when you spot Lenny by the side of Maggie, brushing her fur and crooning at the mare. You were planning on robbing a place you’d heard of, but one man with you couldn’t hurt. You go to him, tapping his shoulder lightly to get his attention.

“Oh, hey Owl,” the teenager smiles, not even jumping. “How’ve you been?”

You make a  _ so so _ gesture; you have good and bad days. Today isn’t bad yet, but it’s not good either. You then point at him, at his saddle and then at Hades not far from you, and hope he understands.

“Ride with you?” You nod. “Sure, anythin’ to leave Micah behind. What are we doing?”

You smirk, and hand him the twelve dollars he had on him. You might not know how to walk silently, but you sure know how to pickpocket.

Lenny watches the dollars with wide eyes before snatching them from your hands. “A robbery, I s’pose?” You nod with a smile.

You had run in on a man, a few days back, who’s horse had suddenly died and was way too far from home to go back on foot. Helping strangers wasn’t something you really did, but the guy was old and was talking about his wife and granddaughter waiting at home, and you had agreed.

And the man had turned  _ very talkative. _ About anything at first, and you had barely listened to him. But then he had mentioned an old homestead, apparently abandoned a while ago, and he had been surprised to see light in it. He had advised you to stay away from it, because he had seen men patrolling the area and that really didn’t look good to him.

You had noted the place in the back of your mind, planning to go take a look one of these days.

You can’t explain anything of it to Lenny, though, and you just mount Hades, gesturing at the kid to follow you.

You reach said place a few hours later, up north of Emerald Ranch, and there are indeed a few men around a little homestead, some tents planted around it. From your spot in the middle of the woods, hidden from them, you wonder if it was a good idea to come with just the two of you. You wouldn’t have minded Charles' presence, if they’re as many as you think.

Lenny hums beside you. You turn to him and he has his binoculars on. “There’s only four men outside, but I think there’s more inside,” he says, and you have to agree with him. “Maybe we can wait a little, see what they do.” You nod; it seems to be the logical thing to do.

Lenny makes himself comfortable against the trunk you’re leaning on, and grins at you, something strange in his eyes. You squint at him, a bit suspicious.

“So, Owl,” he starts, and there’s mischief in his voice. “Hosea told me you didn’t know how to write.”

You’re going to hide something natsy in Hosea’s shoes for speaking to Lenny about that.

“Don’t give me that look,” Lenny laughs quietly. “You wasn’t the one going to talk about it, I figured.” You hit his shoulder at the joke, but he dodges it, making you grunt. “I could teach you, if you want. It’s not that hard.” 

It is, you know it; if it was easy, everyone would know how to read and write.

“Look, if Jack, who’s four, can learn it, I’m sure you can too. And, how old are you anyway?”

That’s a tough question, because you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. You were seven when your mother left you, and the time you passed with the mean couple is a blur in your mind, and you never knew how long you’ve stayed with them. Something between twenty-seven and thirty-one.

You write  _ 29 _ in the dirt with a stick, because it’s in the middle. Numbers are probably the only thing you can write. Maybe some letters

“Seriously? Thought you’d be more than thirty.” Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Lenny is about to say more when a gunshot suddenly rings through the forest, and you both duck behind the tree trunk, sure that you’ve been seen. A lot more follow but, surprisingly, they’re not aimed at you.

You make a move at Lenny to tell him to stay low while you take a small peek out of your cover. Three of the men patrolling around are down, bleeding on the ground, and you see the last one getting shot in the jaw before stumbling to the ground with a gurgling sound. There’s sound in the house, but you don’t really care about them; you’ve spotted who’s been shooting.

They all wear a green bandana.

You grunt loudly.  _ Goddamn O’Driscolls _ . What are they doing here? You thought they were around Valentine, just like you, you’ve even beaten some in town who were being too cocky.

Lenny lifts himself next to you at the sound, and he makes the exact same noise. “Guess waiting really was a good idea.” You grunt your approval. “Do you think we can take them? They’re just six.”

_ Not yet _ , you think, and you make a slowing motion at Lenny, who nods. Even if the O’Driscolls aren’t that many, you still don’t know how many men there are in the homestead, and being caught between two groups is  _ never _ a good idea. But you both have your guns in hand, just in case.

Five other men get out of the house, rifle in hand, ready to fight. They manage to kill one O’Driscoll, but they still all get killed. The O’Driscolls are the brutal type; they may not know how to aim, but they use guns and bullets with a lot of damage, and their kills are never pretty.

You’re ready to fire at them when Lenny catches your wrist, startling you. You shot him a deadly glare, snatching it away.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and you turn away from him. “But something feels off.”

You brush your skin on your pants and frown; does it? You wait for two O’Driscolls to get inside, the others keeping guard, searching the place for the money you’re pretty sure is somewhere inside. Everything is silent for a few seconds before a piercing screech turns your blood to ice.

“Look what I found!” gleefully says one as he gets out with a  _ girl _ on his heels, pulling her on the ground by her hair. And she screams again.

You immediately see  _ red _ .

You’ve never exactly been a very good shot. You’re decent, at best; that’s why you use a shotgun in the first place. That and because you really like the loud sound it makes; it feels like an echo of your own anger sometimes.

But this feels different. Time slows down around you as your eyes focus on the four O’Driscolls outside, the last one forgotten, and your aim with the revolver is suddenly very accurate.

You stand up behind the trunk, and the four bullets pass through their head in slow motion as anger boils through your entire being. The girl falls to the ground with another cry, and the last O’Driscoll comes running out, gun out, searching for you.

You don’t know why, but you run to him. He turns to you when you reach him, and the satisfaction of punching him isn’t enough to calm you; you need more.

The uppercut you just gave him makes him fall to the ground. He accidentally pulls the trigger of his gun, and you feel a bullet pierce the skin of your calf, but you don’t register the pain. You immediately sit on him, pinning him down with your weight and you punch him once, twice, and again and again and again and  _ again. _

You don’t know how many blows you gave him, but the man is a bloody mess underneath you, face covered in bruises. It’s a miracle he didn’t pass out.

You take your shotgun out then, putting the barrel on his head, and you shoot.

You watch the ground covered in blood under the remnant of his brain scattered around and you stare at it for a very long time. Lenny is around you, you know that, you can feel his presence, but if he’s talking to you, you can’t hear it. Your heart is pulsing in your ears, very loud and fast, and you can’t hear anything else.

You let out a very long sigh as the adrenaline leaves you, releasing the pain from your wound. You get off the man, using your good leg to stand up, and turn to the house.

Lenny is fretting toward the girl, who’s hissing at him with ferocity. There’s fear in her very grey eyes, her back on the wooden wall of the homestead, and you both know that if Lenny gets closer to her, she’ll bite.

When he sees you standing, he rushes to you, many emotions fighting on his features, but mostly worry. “You’re terrifying,” he says, giving you a piece of fabric. You suddenly feel every drop of blood on your face; you immediately clean it off. “Are you alright?” You wave at your leg, and he sees the hole in your pants, wincing. 

You wave a hand at him; you’ll be fine, you had worse. You just take a clean piece of bandage out of your satchel and tighten it around the wound to at least stop the bleeding; you’ll take better care of it at camp. You gesture at the girl then, and her eyes are glued to you. She looks like a prey keeping close watch of its hunter.

She’s also skin and bone and has very dark circles under her eyes. And as you look more closely at her, you see bruises around her wrist and even some around her throat. She doesn’t look more than twelve.

You’re familiar with anger, but what takes hold of your guts in this moment is way more powerful and dangerous. It’s hate.

You close your eyes for a few seconds, taking a deep and steady breath to ease it away; this girl really doesn’t need this right now. When you open your eyes again, you look at Lenny, and brush your fingers together.

“Money?” He looks incredulous. “Really, Owl. I didn’t look into the house yet. And, well,” he hesitantly gestures toward you then to the girl, “you can’t really take care of that.”

The girl is looking at you with wide eyes, and Lenny is probably right. You turn to the house, leaving him in charge, and rummage through all the room.

You don’t find any money clip, but there are a few things you can probably sell; two silver rings, a pretty necklace and, best of all, a golden nugget. You also find a cigarette card, with a black panther on it, and you’ve seen Arthur collecting them; maybe he doesn’t have this one?

At the end of your search, after having checked every holes and the firepit, you do find a nice piece of cash. You roughly count it and you’re pretty sure there’s around five hundred dollars.

When you get out of the house, the girl is on Maggie’s back, and Lenny is apparently waiting for you. He looks up at you with a questioning gaze and you grin at him, waving the bills at him.

“That’s a lot,” he says with wide eyes.

You nod, and you cut the pack in three; two hundred to you, two hundred for Lenny, and you hand him the last part, gesturing at the girl.

He nods, smiling at you. “Yeah, that can’t hurt. I’m bringing her home, she lives around Valentine. You comin’?”

You shake your head; you’re still feeling the anger buzzing in your blood and you really need to cool it down before coming back to camp. You watch them leave, going right through the wood in a shortcut, and the girl waves at you before disappearing behind the trees. You sigh deeply then, before sitting directly on the ground and lighting a cigarette.


	6. The Fire in your Eyes

You come back late into the night. You whistle something at Sean, who’s on guard duty, and he waves at you, but nothing else. He probably saw something on your face, because you’re really not up to small talk right now. You just want to hitch Hades and lay by the fire all night. You know that if you try to sleep, you’ll wake up to a nightmare.

But when you dismount, you forget yourself and put all of your weight on your injured leg. The pain sends a shockwave through your entire body, as if you’ve been struck by lightning, and you ultimately fall to the ground, your other foot stuck into the stirrup, hitting your head in the process.

The world is spinning for a moment as you put a hand at the back of your skull, and you're glad to not feel blood. But you’re sure the blinding headache won’t disappear before a long hour, if not more.

“You’re ridiculous, d’you know that?” comes a voice above you, and you squint at the figure above you.

Arthur’s is upside down, but you can easily make out the amused smirk on his face. Treasure wasn’t here when you came back; he probably arrived just after you, giving him the pleasure to see you collapse on the ground.

You grunt at him, pointing at your wound, and Arthur loses his smile. “What happened to you?” You’re a bit taken aback by the concern in his voice, but he doesn’t give you the time to think of how to explain everything. He reaches for the stirrup, freeing your other foot and you heave a sigh of relief.

You still stay on the ground for a few more seconds, closing your eyes and readying yourself for the dizziness that will come when you’ll stand up. When you open them back, you see Arthur extending a hand toward you. 

You take it and when he lifts you up, it feels like you don’t weigh anything to him. He steadies you with a hand on your shoulder when the world starts spinning again, and he chuckles when you shake your head to get rid of it.

“C’mon,” he says, patting your arm. “Let’s patch you up. Ya sure did a poor job at it.” You roll your eyes, but you let him help you near the fire, sitting with your back on the trunk. 

It’s only when he let go of your hand that you realize how long you’ve been holding him. You feel outraged at yourself at first, and then a bit flustered; Arthur’s hand was very warm against your skin. You rub at your palm with a thumb, surprised to not feel the burning sensation.

“So,” Arthur grumbles, startling you out of your thoughts. He’s seated beside your leg, a hand hovering over it, looking at you for permission. You nod, and he starts to unfold the bandage. “How did ya get that?”

You make a gun with your hand, and he rolls his eyes. What was he expecting? Some wolves bite? You’re not John. 

“Y’are lucky the bullet didn't get stuck, would have been quite a thin’ to get it out.” You’re lucky this O’Driscoll didn’t get the time to shoot you in the head, to be honest. You wonder what Lenny had told the other about this strange trip.

Arthur doesn’t say much after that, focus on your wound. He cleans it up with a bit of alcohol, and though you were expecting him to stitch both ends, he only covers it with a tighter bandage - under your pants this time.

He finally lets go of your leg after that, and comes sitting next to you, sighing. He takes his journal out then, and even if you wonder what he can write in it, you let your eyes fall to the fire.

A comfortable silence falls on you as you listen to the pen scribbling over the pages. Almost everyone is sleeping, you can even hear Pearson snoring somewhere. You are the only ones awake, with Sean guarding the camp. You wonder if everyone’s home.

Arthur suddenly starts humming softly, and you turn to him, a bit surprised. His very blue eyes are focused on his journal, and with how his hand moves, he’s drawing something. You stare at him, unable to tear your eyes away from his features, and under the fire light, you notice all the little almost invisible scars on his skin. You also notice the dots of green in his iris, that follow the tip of the pencil.

You can see why Charles fell for him.

You feel yourself blush and you quickly turn away from Arthur, pushing the thought away and failing. Attraction isn’t something you’re familiar with; you’ve spent a lot of your life alone or not long enough with people to allow yourself to feel it. And when you  _ did _ live with people, your silence usually drove them away, leading to your departure.

The Van der Lindes really are the first one to accept it, mostly. But it’s not exactly surprising; the gang gathers a good bunch of outcasts, after all.

You sigh deeply. As much as Arthur is attractive, it’s not like you would do anything about it. And he already has Charles anyway.

You suddenly remember the cigarette card you found. You take it out of your satchel and lightly hit Arthur’s hand holding the journal, interrupting his humming.

“What?” He blinks at you when you hand the card, and slowly takes it. “Thanks,” he quietly says. “Didn’t think someone would notice.” There’s something in his tone that you can’t quite place, but as he tucks the card away reverently, you realize that Arthur isn’t used to receiving things. Not freely, at least.

Maybe you’ll do it more, just to see the joyful light dancing in his eyes again.

“Do you ever sleep?”

Charles’ voice scared you hard enough that you almost let out a loud  _ Fuck _ , but manage to only put a hand on your chest, trying to ease your frantically beating heart. Arthur didn’t even flinch.

“Ya think you’re one to talk?” he says, turning to the man as Charles passes a hand over Arthur’s shoulders, making him smile.

Charles chuckles and comes sitting on the trunk, on your other side. “Fair enough.” You see him looking at your leg then, and you know at his sigh that he has heard about it. “You really got shot, then,” he says, and you know him well enough to recognize the concern in his flat voice.

“What, y’already know ‘bout that?” Arthur asks, a bit incredulous.

“Lenny told us,” Charles answers, then looks at you. “You scared him and the girl’s fine.”

You’re glad about the girl, and you’re not surprised Lenny got scared. They’re all mostly familiar with your anger, but this was different.

Arthur shakes his head in confusion, and Charles starts to retell the event of your day. You don’t really listen to him, focusing back on the dancing flames, content with just the sound of their voices above your head and their warmth surrounding you. They’re sitting far enough that they’re not touching you, but close enough for you to feel their heat.

You wonder why Charles didn’t sit beside Arthur, though.

“Glad someone was with you,” Arthur says, bringing you back in. You blink at him, unsure of what he’s saying. “For the story, I mean. T’s not like you could’ve said it. I know ya can handle yourself jus’ fine.”

You snort bitterly at that; you aren’t so sure. You still don’t know how you managed to kill them all in one go.

“Try to be more careful,” Charles softly says. You turn to him, see how his soft brown eyes linger on your wound before going back to yours. “We don’t want to lose you.”

Something soft settles in your chest at his words, and you’re not sure to know what it is; gratefulness? happiness? tenderness? It might be a bit of all of them.

You nod at Charles, a silent promise, and he nods back at you. You wish you could ask the same from him, because you don’t want to lose him neither, nor Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, but I needed the softness (and I really know nothing about treating wounds)
> 
> Also, for anymone coming from To Die and To Live, don't worry, I'm still working on it, but I'm having _issues_ with a character because I can't get them right and it's driving me CRAZY


	7. Listening to the Water

This morning, you feel stuck in your own head.

It’s different from your anger, and happens rarely, but it still does, from time to time. It feels like the whole world isn’t worth getting up in the morning and you just want to do nothing at all.

But you can’t do that. Not with Lenny and Bill out for the day, not with Micah turning around camp pretending to be some sort of king, not with Kieran helping with the horses and the girls doing their usual chores.

Dutch and Hosea are talking among themself inside the leader’s tent, and you see Molly sitting on a rock around the overlook, watching herself in her mirror, as usual. You wish you could trade your place with her today, but you only grunt at the sight and go help Kieran with the saddles.

The young man welcomes you with a nod and a wavering smile as you sit with him to take care of the leather. You nod back, but you don’t smile, not feeling like it.

Kieran is nice enough, you think, for an O’Driscoll. Well, he’s not really one, as he keeps claiming it, and you must admit he doesn’t remind you of the many boys you killed from this gang. He’s too soft, too shy, and you wonder how he even ended up with them. You wonder if he’s even able to kill.

Time goes on, you clean another saddle, taking so much more time than usual, and the feeling doesn’t disappear. When you’re finished with the second one, you let out a very long sigh, rubbing at your face, hoping to make it go away, to no avail.

You know it’ll pass, at some point, but you don’t know if it’ll be in two hours or two days. You’re just stuck with it.

“Everything okay?” Kieran asks. When you turn to him, he’s looking at you with genuine worried eyes. They’re very blue, a bit like Arthur’s, but a lot clearer, reminding you of a very pale winter sky.

You’re tempted to nod, to push his worry away, but you don’t find it in yourself to do so. You just sigh again and wave a hand at him. You’re not okay, but you’ll be.

“Hm,” he hums, seeming to understand. “Is there-- anything to help?” You chuckle bitterly; he really is too kind for his own good. You shake your head, but you’re smiling your thanks, and Kieran smiles back.

You point at him then, the question pretty clear.

“Me? Oh, uh, well, I’m-- I’m not attached to a tree anymore,” he tries to laugh, and it reminds you of how you weren’t okay with the idea in the first place. “But I-I guess I’m fine? It could be worse. I could be dead.”

He really could; he’s lucky he saved Arthur’s life, at Six Point Cabin, or otherwise he would probably have been killed. But he’s still not allowed to leave camp, not without anyone, at least, and you’ve seen the way Sadie keeps snarling at him every time their path crosses, or how Bill is being a bully once again, though you don’t understand why.

Kieran isn’t trusted, yet. Maybe he never will. But at least, he’s trying, and he never touched you or waited for more than simple gestures from you, and you like that.

You hear footsteps coming to you then, and when you turn around, you see Charles walking toward the rock you’re seated on. He waves a hand at you, not smiling, but something still feeling very soft in his features. “Hey, Night,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “Kieran,” he adds, and thought it’s not warm, there's no animosity in it.

“Hello,” Kieran answers, voice shaking a bit, and you almost chuckle. With how big and strong Charles is, you can understand how terrifying he might look.

“You busy?” Charles turns back to you, and you show your empty hands. “Come hunting with me, then.”

You blink at him; is this some sort of strange joke?  _ I’m not a hunter _ , you say with your hands. Charles had asked you in the past weeks to teach him your language, and you happily obliged, using it more often around him. It was a nice alternative to writing.

He looks at your hands, and you can feel his confusion, so you do it again, slower. “I don’t know that last one,” he says then. You try to mimic the way he holds his bow, and you see the gears clicking in his eyes. “Oh, hunter.” You do the sign again, and he does it after you, tucking it away in his memory.

“I know you don’t hunt,” he admits, crossing his arms over his chest and making him look even larger. “Still want you to come.”

That is… very strange, but not unwanted. Riding with Charles is always pleasant, and maybe it’ll get you out of this strange state. You nod at him, standing up and defying the voice inside your head trying to tell you that it’s not worth it.

You both ride quietly, not rushing Taima and Hades, and you slowly follow Charles on the shores of the Dakota River, going North. But as he leads you farther and farther away from camp, not stopping when there’s deer around, you understand that he didn’t actually take you out to hunt.

You smile to yourself, even if your heart still feels bitter for no good reason; Charles probably saw something in you, a glimpse of what your mind was today, and decided to help in the only way he knew: with his own silence.

You settle down near a nice little pond, and as you dismount, you see Charles taking his bow out of his saddle, putting the string on it.

“I’ll hunt something for tonight,” he says, and you nod at him; you’ll take care of the camp.

It’s been a long while since you’ve slept out of camp, away from anyone, and it’s a nice change of pace. Gathering wood for the fire, starting it with your matches, and laying both of your bedrolls on the ground on either side of it is simple work, and you feel like the lapping sounds of the water ease something in you.

Once everything is done, you walk to the pond’s shore, standing beside the water, eyes on the sky. The sun will set soon, casting beautiful orange light on the clouds, the sky slowly darkening.

The cold wind is rustling through the pines, disturbing their branches. It brushes on your skin, ruffles your hair. You close your eyes, taking in the soft feeling. It’s as if your thoughts have stopped, freeing your mind, allowing it to focus on the sounds around you. The birds chirping in the trees. A flock of geese flying above. An elk bellowing in the distance, another answering the cry.

You hear footsteps behind you, and you see Charles coming with two dead rabbits in hands when you turn around. You join him as he sits near the flames and starts to take care of one of the carcasses. You grab the other one, taking your knife out, and patiently skin the rabbit, cleaning the meat.

Charles finishes first, of course, and he sets the rabbit over the fire. You’re not watching him, but you can feel his eyes on you. Your rabbit joins his after a while, and you heave a sigh as you clean your knife from the blood.

When you look up, you meet Charles’ soft brown eyes, and it feels as if he’s studying you, looking into your very soul. You stay a moment only staring, your heart beating in your ears, before shaking yourself out of it.

_ Thank you _ , you sign.

Charles only nods, and he turns away from you, gazing at the pond. “You didn’t seem like yourself,” he says. You huff, shaking your head; only Charles could have seen it, really. “Thought a bit of time away would help.” He waves a hand at your surroundings, and you look around: stars are slowly appearing in the sky, and they’re beautifully reflecting into the water.

“Arthur told me about this place,” Charles adds. He’s smiling when you turn back to him, and the affection in it makes your heart skip a beat. “Seemed like a nice spot to clear the mind.”

You hum. Being away and mostly alone did help, but you know that it’ll mostly take time to be back into yourself.

You both quickly go to bed after eating those rabbits, and even if you’re tired, you still don’t feel like sleeping. You lay on your back, hands folded over your stomach, and you look at the stars. They’re shining brightly.

You stare at them long enough to hear Charles’ breath even out. You smile to yourself; you know Charles doesn’t sleep that much, in camp, always doing something or another. Knowing that he’s comfortable enough around you to let his guard down make you happier than you thought.

You see the half moon creeping through the tree, slowly coming up, illuminating the sky faintly and hiding the weakest stars. You let your thought twirl inside your head, not focusing on anything, allowing yourself to feel here and there, no past, no future. An owl hoots in the sky and there’s wolves howling far away. Bats chirp around, catching their prey, and you can hear fish jumping out of the water from time to time, insects buzzing above the surface.

How many hours you stay like that, you have no idea. But you're taken away from your contemplation by a sudden loud groan.

You turn to Charles, blinking in surprise. His back is to you, but as he let out another strangle growl, you notice his tensed shoulders.

You sit up on your bedroll, watching him with a frown. His legs twitch once, and you know he's deep into a nightmare.

The decision to wake him up is easy enough to make. You stand up, walking to Charles and kneeling in front of him. His fist is clenched around the fabric of his bedroll and he's frowning deeply. He groans again, and you don't waste any time thinking about how much it pains you to see him like that, and you gently place a hand on his shoulder.

He curls under your touch, as if trying to escape it, but you don't let go, shaking him softly at first, and more firmly once you realize it's not working.

All at once, his eyes shoot open, and you barely have the time to register the utter fear in them before there's a knife on your throat and a hand grasping your arm in a tight hold.

You had forgotten how long Charles had been alone before the gang.

He doesn’t see you at first -  _ can’t _ . Then he blinks, recognizing you, and let go of your arm as if it just burnt him. You cover it back with your hand, brushing the skin under the fabric of your shirt; this is the kind of touch you really hate, but you can’t really blame it on him.

There’s a terrified light in his eyes as he glances at his knife and lets it fall on the ground. “I--” Charles starts, looking back at you. You take a sharp breath in, for how  _ open _ he suddenly is, how vulnerable he looks. “I’m--” He closes his eyes for a moment, and you can see him collecting himself, his features taking back his usual stoic expression. He still looks haunted when he opens them back.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to say, not looking at you. “You-- surprised me.”

You watch him retrieving the knife, tucking it by his side, and standing up, walking toward the pond. He stops by the shore, arms folded in front of him, and, for a hot second, he feels very  _ small. _

You stare at him, massaging your arm out of the burning feeling, wondering what you should do. You sigh heavily, rising up on your feet, and slowly join him near the water, standing on his left. You're not expecting anything, but you can't find it in yourself to leave him alone with his thoughts. For how tense he feels, they can't be good.

"I'm sorry," Charles says again. You look up at him, but his eyes seem glued to the water. "I… don't often get nightmares, and, well." He sighs through his nose, and you can feel the annoyance in it. "I would never hurt you on purpose," he adds sincerely. He finally turns to you then, and you can see him looking at your throat; at where his knife had been. He shakes his head, quickly turning away. "I could've killed you, just for a goddamn dream--" 

You interrupt him, taking a hold of his clothes, tugging at it firmly to cut him. Charles looks back at you, and the guilt in his eyes makes you want to scream.

"It--" you start, and immediately cut yourself. Take a deep breath while looking in his eyes, shining like silver under the moonlight. "It's okay."

Your voice is raspy and gruff, but this felt too important to use signs.  _ Charles _ is too important at this moment, and you really need him to know that you mean it.

He doesn't say a thing about the fact that you talked, but you can see the bewilderment in his eyes and his slightly hanging jaw. You shake his shirt, trying to put more strength behind the words with the gesture, before letting go.

_ It's okay _ , you say again with your hands.  _ It's okay. _

You wish Charles could read you as easily as Bill, because you would say so much more. That you know he would never harm you. That this could have happened to anyone, even Arthur. That nightmares happen all the time and maybe you would have done the same, if not more.

But maybe Charles - clever, gentle and kind Charles - actually read all of that in your eyes. Something soft appears in his, and even if it looks a bit sad, it also looks very fond. He doesn't smile, but his whole face softens into something tender and warm. You feel your heart flutter as you keep staring at him, warmth spreading on your cheek, but you're unable to turn away. It feels like looking at an illuminated candle in a pitch black room and staying by its side both for its warmth and how beautiful it is.

"Alright," he softly mutters. He uncross his arms, and for a second you think he'll try to hold you - and for a second, it doesn't scare you - but he backs away, his demeanor changing. 

He stiffens a laugh, sounding tired and bitter as he shakes his head, before sighing deeply. "What a night," he grumbles.

You hum, smiling despite yourself. What a night, indeed.

"Say," Charles adds then, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Ever done night hunting?" You shake your head, raising an eyebrow at him. "Watcha say about it? On our way back."

You chuckle softly, tipping your head forward in agreement; it sounds fun. None of you will be able to sleep more anyway, and you have to come back to camp with something, be it now or later.

You're not a hunter, but watching Charles' shape crouched in the night, bow in hand, is quite something. You find it incredible how silent he can actually be, and it's no wonder he startles you all the time.

By the time the sky is starting to clear out, Charles has hunted two does and one great owl, and you managed to kill one badger with your rifle, cleanly enough that the skin can be used. Your horses are slower with the kills on them, and you come back to Horseshoe Overlook as the sun starts to appear on the horizon, casting red light all over camp.

"Who's there!" John screams as you come on the path.

"Charles,” he says as you whistle in your hands, sounding like an actual owl.

"Oh, welcome back, you two," John laughs. "Had fun?"

"Sure," Charles answers, but you hear the tenseness in his voice. 

"'Kay." Maybe John heard it too. "Arthur was looking for you, by the way."

Charles nods at him and you follow him to the hitching post, tying Hades' reins on the wood, and taking the doe off his back. You walk to Pearson's wagon, letting it fall on the ground next to it, Charles doing the same.

"My, my!" Pearson joyfully says. "Thank you both!"

"There you are," comes Arthur voice then, and you both turn to him at the same time. He's smirking. "Where have you two been?"

"Hunting," Charles answers, smiling back. It's as if he can't hold it back.

Arthur snorts shortly. "Could've guessed that." His smirk weakens a bit as he glances between you, worry lines appear at the corner of his eyes. "You a'right?"

You shrug; are you ever alright? And Charles doesn't say anything, only turning to you. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he presses his lips in a thin line.

He's asking for permission, you realize. You roll your eyes deeply and wave a hand at him; you're not his parent, he can do whatever he wants.

"M'kay…?" Arthur says, confused.

"I'll tell you later," Charles answers, sighing at you, hooking his hand on his hips. "You wanted to see me?"

Arthur studies him for a moment, watching him up and down, before grinning once again, a strange light in his eyes. "’Course," he replies, in a strange tone that makes Charles chuckles.

You groan at them; can't they be more subtle? You wave a hand at them, gaining a laugh, and leave them, going to help the girls with the laundry.

You watch them leave camp on foot as you water clothes. There's a strange feeling clutching at your chest. It feels like longing for something, but you can't name it yet, too foreign as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's time when I feel like not feeling enough and unable to do anything too tiring, and I usual meditate in a very silent room or go outside and listen to the world to stop thinking (or write on this to get out of my own head)


	8. A Targeted Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Micah's in here, be careful because he's a jerk, as usual

You’re bringing hay to the horses when you see Jack running past you, a pile of pebble in his arms. You stop in your tracks, watching him go near a big rock not so far from the cliff and letting all the little rocks fall on the ground before sitting beside them. You look around, trying to know if anyone is looking for him; Tilly and Karen are chatting over a cup of coffee after their chores. Molly is in her tent, reading. Mary-Beth is speaking with Miss Grimshaw and Abigail is sewing clothes in her tent, apparently Jack’s. Pearson is in his wagon, cooking the usual stew. Uncle is sleeping as usual and Hosea and Lenny are speaking on the main table, a newspaper in the middle of them. Sean and Javier are working on the wagon’s wheels. Kieran is tending to the horses, Bill watching over him, and Charles is on guard duty.

You know that John is out of camp, Arthur joined him earlier in Valentine, and you saw Dutch and Strauss leave later in the morning. Micah is probably somewhere doing nothing or sharpening his knife.

So no one is really watching for Jack. You sigh to yourself; you really can’t let the kid run around camp all alone. You put your hay with the horses and join him, sitting on the big rock.

“Hullo, Owl,” he says to you, his smile very bright. You smile back and wave a hand at him. The kid chose a nice spot for whatever game he made up, the sun falling on both of you. 

There’s more pebble around, and you wonder where he found them; did he go to the river without anyone noticing? No, he probably wouldn’t, not after the incident with the Pinkertons. You watch over him, looking for any wound, and deem it not important when you find none.

“Wanna help me?” Jack asks then, handing you a bunch of rocks, barely holding them with both of his hands.

You chuckle at the sight and put your hand under his, letting the pebbles fall on it. You get down off your rock, sitting directly on the ground next to him, and watch what the boy’s doing. You think he’s just creating some sort of spiral with the rocks, and though you don’t really understand why, you help him place them, and let him move them when he thinks they’re not in the right place.

You’re at it for quite a time, enough that Pearson calls for the food, but you’re both too engulfed in this strange game to notice.

That is, until someone comes to you.

“Hey there, Jack,” says Micah, standing on the other side of Jack. “Birdie.”

Something cold settles on you as you glance at him and his damn smirk. You _hate_ that nickname. Jack is a polite kid, and says his greetings back, but you’re not as nice as him; ignoring Micah is usually for the best anyway.

But you stay very aware of Micah’s presence as he stays beside Jack, watching over his big spiral and all the pebbles. And you really don’t like it.

It doesn’t take long for Micah to speak again, with how much he loves the sounds of his own voice. “Tell me, _Jackie,_ ” he starts in a honeyed tone. You look up to the man, readying yourself for whatever he’s going to say. “How does it feel to not know which of these men is your _father?_ ”

You gape at him, completely stunned by what he just asks. Jack, unconsciously, presses himself against you, and you let him, landing a hand on his shoulder. “W-what d’you mean?” the boy asks back, and you feel that he actually understood quite clearly what Micah meant. _Damn him._

“Well, since everyone fucked--”

You don’t let him finish; you stand up next to Jack, his back on your legs, and you punch Micah hard on the nose.

_How dare he_ , you think, as Micah stumbles backward, hand covering his face, cursing. You help Jack stand up then, grabbing him gently by the armpits, and push him away from you, toward Abigail. Her back is to you, and she’s speaking with Hosea, who seems very focused on her.

Jack doesn’t wait to run to her, and you turn back to Micah, who’s actually _laughing_.

“That all you got, lil’ bird?” he slurs, taking a fighting posture.

Oh, so that’s what he was actually looking for; a goddamn fight. But even for how big Micah’s ego is, it doesn’t match up with his strength. You mirror him, your stance better, and march toward him with confidence. He tries to punch you, but you dodge easily, going for his side with a precise strike before smashing your fist to his jaw. It sends him flying and he lands very close to the edge of the overlook.

You don’t think twice as the anger boils under your skin. Micah doesn’t have _any right_ to go after Jack like that, to ask him those nasty questions and get away with it. You don’t let him get back on his feet; you grab his collar and drag him on the ground and hang him right above the void, leaving only his legs on the ground.

Micah squeals once he feels the emptiness under him, and he grabs your arm, hoping not to fall. You shake him once, growling, and he lets go under your burning gaze. “What the Hell is _wrong_ with you?! Let go of me!” he screams, both angry and scared.

You laugh at his choice of words. You really could let go and watch him die, he wouldn’t be the first man you killed and wouldn’t be the last. But you know what will happen if you do. For some reasons, Dutch seem to like and trust Micah. If you kill him, Dutch will either kick you out of the gang or kill you.

Charles and Arthur’s face flash in your mind, and you think that you can’t live without them in your life.

“What’s happening here?!” suddenly comes Hosea’s hard voice.

You look up from Micah’s bloodied face, and you’re both glad and surprised to see the man glaring at him instead of you.

“The _bird’s_ gone crazy, trying to kill me!” Micah defends himself.

Hosea stops next to you, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, they’d get us rid of quite the nuisance,” he says, and you can’t help but snickers. “What did you do to anger them?”

Micah bares his teeth, squirming under your fist around his shirt. “Why d’you care, old man?” he growls. “S’not that hard, the bird’s _always_ angry.” You can’t argue with that.

Hosea shakes his head, disgust clear over his face, and turns to you, one eyebrow raised. “Did he do something?” You nod, clenching your fist harder, torning Micah’s coat. Hosea nods back, and turns around, one hand around his mouth as he calls “Bill!”

“What?!”

“C’mere, be useful for once!”

As Bill walks toward you, you lift Micah from the cliff, and let him fall on the ground, his weight pulling on your arm. But before he can stand up and get away, you put your foot on his chest, pressing him in the grass.

“ _You goddamn piece of shit_ ,” he grunts.

“Well, lookitya!” Bill laughs as he sees Micah. “What did he do?” he asks then, looking at you.

_Asked the kid who his real father is_ , you sign. And Bill, just like you, can only gape.

“Well?” Hosea says, sounding impatient.

“He--” Bill starts, but the loud noises of hooves running into camp make you all turn around, seeing Dutch and John, Strauss behind his saddle, coming back.

You frown as you see blood on their clothes and the bullet hole in Strauss’ leg. Your heart skips a beat when you don’t see Arthur with them.

“Ladies, gentlemen!” Dutch says with his booming voice as he dismounts The Count. “We’re moving! Mister Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, start packing and-- What is going on here?!”

Dutch’s hard dark gaze is on you, and you suddenly feel like a child about to get scolded as he walks toward you. Hosea sighs, clearly annoyed, and Bill quietly takes a few steps away from you; you can’t really blame him, Dutch wrath is usually to be feared.

You spot a movement behind him as Arthur comes into camp, mostly unharmed, and you feel like you can breath again. He looks around camp and spots you, his eyes meeting yours, and you can see the immediate questions in his blue gaze when he notices Micah under you. You tear your eyes away from him, focusing back on Dutch.

You lift your foot from Micah just as he reaches you and the man scrambles on his feet, snarling at you as he adjusts his jacket and brushes the blood dripping from his nose with its sleeve.

“Is this your doing?” Dutch asks you, as if it could be mistaken. You clench your teeth and glare at him, deeming it enough of an answer. Dutch point an accusing finger at you. “I _thought_ I already told you: we don’t _punch_ our own.”

He did, the first time you really fought with someone in the gang; it had been Javier, who had teased you the wrong way on a bad day and ended up on the ground with a bleeding nose.

“I think he deserved it,” Hosea says to your defense, and you shot him a grateful glance.

“What could he possibly _do_ to deserve a broken nose?!” Micah’s nose isn’t broken, you’re sure of it. You hear Bill taking a breath behind Hosea, about to say something, but Dutch doesn’t let him speak. “You know what-- _I don’t care_ . Do and try to act as decent folks, the both of you! I hope I made myself _clear?_ ”

“Cristal, boss,” Micah snickers.

But Dutch is glaring at you, and you glare back, unimpressed. He might be big and tough, but he’s no Charles, and you could probably take him easily in a fight. But you know Dutch doesn’t fight with his fists. He either uses his words or his guns.

You nod at him just as Arthur reaches your little group, looking confusedly between all of you. Micah has already been punished for what he did. You just hope it’ll be enough.

“Alright,” Dutch growls, then sighs. “Now, we need to get away.”

“And why, exactly?” Hosea asks in an accusing tone. You’re wondering the same thing, and glance at Arthur, who sighs heavily.

“I’ll tell you later, old girl,” Dutch laughs. Hosea scoffs, not cooled off by the familiar nickname. “We need to find a new place to settle down, and quick.”

“With what ya pulled off, we sure do,” Arthur grumbled.

“It’s Cornwall’s fault, not mine, son.”

“What does Cornwall have _anything_ to do with this?” Hosea is slowly but surely losing his patience.

“I might know a place, boss,” Micah says. His nose isn’t bleeding anymore, but he will surely have a very nice black eye. You smirk at the idea. “It’s near Dewberry Creek.”

“Great,” Dutch compliments him, patting him on the shoulder; and for a second you think of a dog pleasing his owner. It disgusts you. “Arthur, you go there, take a look. Take Charles and see if it’ll do.”

Arthur frowns at him, apparently not liking the idea, but ends up nodding anyway.

As he turns away, going to Charles who’d been watching them from afar, stiff with concern, Dutch meet your eyes again, and something settles on them. “Take Night Owl with you too,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “They need to cool off a bit.”

You stare at him for a second and don’t let Arthur turn back again before following him toward the hitching post. This is some sort of punishment, you think, but you can’t help but finding it childish. You’re grown and you take your own decision; punching Micah in the face was definitely a satisfying one.

“What the hell happened?” Arthur asks you once you’re all riding toward the South. “I mean, I’m all for punchin’ _Micah_ , but still.”

You shoot him a look, because you really should be the one asking that question. As you stare at him for a few more moments, Charles doing the same between you two, he seems to take the hint.

He rolls his eyes and grumbles. “A’right, whatever, he probably deserved it.” He really did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted Night Owl to interact with Jack, because this boy is precious, but I also wanted them to kick Micah's ass, because he deserves it all the time!

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I don't entirely remember the order of the quests? Because I Do Not, I'm going on instinct there.


End file.
